I’m better at writing fake jokes than real ones.
From the same story as below; like the excerpts in the New Yorker, only maybe a lot closer to a Reader’s Digest feature.
So last week I was on this train, traveling across country—something I do a lot, because I love to punish my behind. Can you say tingling? Anyway, my feet were falling asleep, so I stand up and start hopping around from leg to leg, trying to get the blood flowing again. Like I’m doing right now! And there’s this lady staring at me with the most horrified look on her face, and she says to me, “you’re butchering that jig!” and I stop for a second, look back at her just liek she was looking at me, and I say, “you’re butchering that sense of style!” Because she was. She looked ridiculous.
Your laughter—yes, I’m assuming the laugh, as the audience won’t be as emotionally dead as you are—reminds me of one of my students. She has a lisp—let me finish before you bust up—and at least once a day she lisps through a word and makes it sound like a different, less appropriate word. Like she’ll say, “Whenths the sthoupss ssserved?” and I always correct her, “We’re having sandwiches today, ssssilly, not sthoops.” And most all of the other students usually laugh and she turns red when she realizes her mistake. But one day she got really upset and yelled, “you’re ssssthoopid!” and I go, “Why don’t you just say dumb?!? Duh! You’re dumb!” Everybody laughed a lot harder that one time. Sssthoopid.
